With a rueful glance at his thin clothes, he dropped himself over the side of the wreck and struck out toward the gate. The water, having its source from the snowclad mountains, was icy. He was glad enough to grasp the lower bars of the gate and draw himself up. He was on the point of climbing over, when a picture presented itself to his streaming eyes.

Seated on a bench made of twisted vine was a young girl. She held in her hand a book, but she was not reading it. She was scanning the unwritten pages of some reverie; her eyes, dark, large and wistful, were holding communion with the G.o.d of dreams. A wisp of hair, glossy as coal, trembled against a cheek white as the gown she wore.

At her side, blinking in the last rays of the warm sun, sat a bulldog, toothless and old. Now and then a sear leaf, falling in a zig-zag course, rustled past his ears, and he would shake his head as if he, too, were dreaming and the leaves disturbed him. All at once he sniffed, his ears stood forward, and a low growl broke the enchantment. The girl, on discovering Maurice, closed the book and rose. The dog, still growling, jumped down and trotted to the gate. Maurice thought that it was time to speak.

"Mademoiselle," he said, "pardon this intrusion, but my boat has met with an accident."

The girl came to the gate. "Why, Monsieur," she exclaimed, "you are wet!"

"That is true," replied Maurice, his teeth beginning to knock together.

"I was forced to swim. If you will kindly open the gate and guide me to the street, I shall be much obliged to you."

The gate swung outward, and in a moment Maurice was on dry land, or the next thing to it, which was the boat-dock.

"Thank you," he said.

"O! And you might have been drowned," compa.s.sion lighting her beautiful eyes. "Sit down on the bench, Monsieur, for you must be weak. And it was that sunken pier? I shall speak to Monseigneur; he must have it removed. Bull, stop growling; you are very impolite; the gentleman is in distress."

Maurice sat down, not because he was weak, but because the desire to gain the street had suddenly subsided. Who was this girl who could say "must" to the formidable prelate? His quick eye noticed that she showed no sign of embarra.s.sment. Indeed, she impressed him as one who was superior to that petty disturbance of collected thought. Somehow it seemed to him, as she stood there looking down at him, that he, too, should be standing. But she put forth a hand with gentle insistence when he made as though to rise. What an exquisite face, he thought. Against the whiteness of her skin her lips burned like poppy petals. Innocent, inquisitive eyes smiled gently, eyes in whose tranquil depths lay the glory of the world, asleep. Presently a color, faint and fugitive, dimmed the whiteness of her cheeks. Maurice, conscious of his rudeness and of a warmth in his own cheeks, instinctively lowered his gaze.

"Pardon my rudeness," he said.

"What is your name, Monsieur," she asked calmly.

"It is Maurice Carewe. I am living in Vienna. I came to Bleiberg for pleasure, but the first day has not been propitious," with an apologetic glance at his dripping clothes.

"Maurice Carewe," slowly repeating the full name as if to imprint it on her memory. "You are English?"

He said: "No; I am one of those dreadful Yankees you have possibly read about."

Her teeth gleamed. "Yes, I have heard of them. But you do not appear so very dreadful; though at present you are truly not at your best. What is this--this Yankeeland like?"

"It would take me ever so long to tell you about it, it is such a great country."

"You are a patriot!" clapping her hands. "No other country is so fine and large and great as your own. But tell me, is it as large as Austria?"

"Austria? You will not be offended if I tell you?"

"No."

"Well," with fun in his eyes, "it is my opinion that I could hide Austria in my country so thoroughly that n.o.body would ever be able to find it again." He wondered how she would accept this statement.

She lifted her chin and laughed, and the bulldog wagged his tail, as he always did when mirth touched her. He jumped up beside Maurice and looked into his face. Maurice patted his broad head, and he submitted.

The girl looked rather surprised.

"Are you a magician?" she asked.

"Why?"

"Bull never makes friends."

"But I do," said Maurice; "perhaps he understands that, and comes half-way. But it is rather strange to see a bulldog in this part of the country."

"He was given to me, years ago, by an Englishman."

"That accounts for it." He was experiencing a deal of cold, but he dared not mention it. "And may I ask your name?"

"Ah, Monsieur," shyly, "to tell you my name would be to frighten you away."

"I am sure nothing could do that," he declared earnestly. Had he been thinking of aught but her eyes he might have caught the significance of her words. But, then, the cold was numbing.

She surveyed him with critical eyes. She saw a clean-shaven face, brown, handsome and eager, merry blue eyes, a chin firm and aggressive, a mischievous mouth, a forehead which showed the man of thought, a slim athletic form which showed the man of action--all of which combined to produce that indescribable air which attaches itself to the gentleman.

"It is Alexia," she said, after some hesitation, watching him closely to observe the effect.

But he was as far away as ever. "Alexia what?"

"Only Alexia," a faint coquetry stealing into her glance.

"O, then you are probably a maid?"

"Y--es. But you are disappointed?"

"No, indeed. You have put me more at ease. I suppose you serve the princess?"

"Whenever I can," demurely.

He could not keep his eyes from hers. "They say that she is a very lonely princess."

"So lonely." And the coquetry faded from her eyes as her glance wandered waterward and became fixed on some object invisible and far away. "Poor lonely princess!"

Maurice was growing colder and colder, but he did not mind. He had wished for some woman to talk to; his wish had been granted. "I feel sorry for her, if what they say is true," having no other words.

"And what do they say, Monsieur?"

"That she and her father have been socially ostracized. I should be proud to be her friend." Once the words were gone from him, he saw their silliness. "A presumptuous statement," he added; "I am an obscure foreigner."

"Friendship, Monsieur, is a thing we all should prize, all the more so when it is disinterested."

He said rapidly, for fear she might hear his teeth chatter: "They say she is very beautiful. Tell me what she is like."

"I am no judge of what men call beauty. As to her character, I believe I may recommend that. She is good."

He was sure that merriment twitched the corners of her lips, and he grew thoughtful. "Alexia. Is that not her Highness's name also?"

"Yes, Monsieur; we have the same names." Her eyes fell, and she began to finger the pages of the book.

"I am rested now," he said, with a sudden distrust. "I thank you."